


Upon Our Branches

by croftian (verily_I_write)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:17:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3310415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verily_I_write/pseuds/croftian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"On the outside windowsill, a bee lands, laden with pollen, basking in the sunlight just as you bask in North’s affection.</p>
<p>You close your eyes.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon Our Branches

The sunlight is warm on your forearms and the top of your head as you brace against the windowsill, motes of dust dancing around you, disturbed from their resting spots upon your arrival. Outside, the garden is lit with the full radiance of the afternoon sun, and hairy-bodies bumblebees dance over your petunias, floating over to the shaded planter where your begonias grow and elsewhere to the myriad of other flowers that York, North and yourself had planted earlier in the season. It was a labor of love, and half the time had been spent telling York to stop flinging balls of dirt at North and yourself from across the yard, but the end result had been well worth the effort, and re-planting annuals in the small garden had become a task the three of you took to with pleasure each spring.

Thinking of York makes you glance across the kitchen at the clock hanging above the small square table that serves well enough as the main ‘food devouring station’ in the household, as your half-blind boyfriend likes to joke. The clock reads eleven forty-five, still over five hours before York gets off of work at the bookstore on the corner of Thompson Ave and Deckers Street. Initially, you were surprised when he announced that he had applied and been hired on at the store. York had always been a ‘guns and lock-picking’ sort of guy, but after the accident…Well, working at a firing range was out of the question, and the majority of the locksmiths he had applied to had downright refused to hire a half-blind man, regardless of the fact that said man had all the abilities of the next guy in line, if not more. The book store had been a bit of an off-shoot idea, but in time had grown to be a place that York was fond of and pleased to work in.

As for yourself…well, that’s another story if you want to figure in your inability to stand large crowds, your twitchiness at the slightest loud noise, and the PTSD post-service in the military. Your pension, along with York’s and North’s incomes, keeps you reasonably well off, but there is so /little/ to do when your boyfriends aren’t around. It’s almost maddening, really, what you would do just to be able to handle short shifts in a store or an office somewhere.

Before you can linger too long in the darkness of your own thoughts, the front door opens and then clicks shut succeeding heavy footfalls. Shoes toed off are kicked onto their designated mud mat, and the soft treat of sock-covered feet tramps down the foyer hall into the kitchen where you stand. North plants a bag of groceries on the table, erstwhile greeting, “Still garden gazing? The bees must be putting up one hell of a show, hmm?”

Long, muscled arms wrap around your waist as the taller man leans down and plants a kiss on your uncovered neck. “Penny for your thoughts?”

"Just…thinking. About getting a job." You’re not stupid, even you can pick up on the distant tone in your voice, and after effect of wool gathering in unpleasant memories. The arms around your waist tighten, North presses closer to you, face turning, nose pressed to your hairline and traveling up until it’s nestled at the top of your golden head of hair.

"Do you want to talk?" Lips scratching against the short strands of your hair, North’s breath hot on the skin underneath. You shake your head, "No. Just…just stay here like this. With me. Just for a little while."

North’s response is tonal, a deep rumble in his chest that reverberates through where it’s pressed flush up against your back. Your body heat blends with his through both of your cotton t-shirts, warm all the way down to where your butt is pressed snug back into the older man’s groin. On the outside windowsill, a bee lands, laden with pollen, basking in the sunlight just as you bask in North’s affection.

You close your eyes.

The two of you stand there for a few minutes, the kitchen quiet but for your breathing and the appliances kicking in now and then. The smell of North’s cologne sweeps around you and to your surprise, your gut begins to feel warm, your abdomen jerking on a shaky inhale at the sudden and surprising rush of arousal that fills you. The more intimate side of your relationship with York and North has been touch-and-go since the beginning. At times, you would go weeks without feeling aroused, choosing instead to either forgo sex for a book in another room or a restless nap on the couch, or simply being there to lovingly bring your boyfriends off without desire for the same. Presently, it’s been two weeks since the last time you so much as jerked off, and the arousal that’s spiked in you is fierce, burning strong in the few short seconds since it was kindled.

Like a starved man, you’ll take what you can get of this sudden desire. For all you know, it might be another month before you can even summon a stiffy, right?

Not so subtly, you press your hips backwards, grinding your rear against North’s groin first lightly, then with growing pressure. North’s a smart man - he catches on to your little game after a few moments of confusion, his huffing chuckle stuttering through a languid moan. “You cheeky minx. Two can play at this game.”  
And a hand is sneaking down to cup your junk through your jeans, squeezing lightly, then rubbing palm-down against the beginnings of a hard-on. A content hum escapes you, you don’t bother to suppress it, thrusting forward minutely and then grinding back against the forming bulge in North’s slacks. “You call that playing, man? ‘S gonna take a lot more to impress me.” North snorts in response to this.

"Should we take this to the bedroom?" The taller blond’s hand doesn’t stop it’s ministrations as he asks this, palm pressing down, rotating, then easing up as his fingers press down in the seam between your legs, massaging your balls. You groan, head dropping to hang loosely between your still folded arms.  
"Nah, this is good. Just keep doing, ah, th-that." For now, at least. Your dick has swollen embarrassingly quick, now a thick line pressing solidly against the constriction of your jeans. Not quite uncomfortable yet, but only just. 

Wordlessly, hips press forward to grind against you, that other hand not preoccupied with massaging your crotch sliding up to your neck, fingers loosely dancing across the bare flesh up and down, a relaxing repetition that leaves you tilting your chin up, baring your throat to further exploration. North’s fingers are calloused, worn tough by years of handling military grade rifles. Though the taller man no longer serves, the rough skin persists with regular visits to the shooting range. You yourself can’t stand the place, jumping at every shot fired.

While your thoughts drift, the hand on your crotch pops the button on your jeans, pulling the fly open and dipping down into the heat of your briefs. The rough skin of North’s hand feels glorious against the soft, tender flesh of your dick. Where you were almost hard before, you are much more uncomfortably so now, aching and wanting as your boyfriend wraps his hand loosely around you, giving you a few non-committal tugs that make you whine helplessly. Behind you, North chuckles (wickedly, you think at this point with a huff), loosening his grip around you when you try to thrust up harder into his palm.

"North, come on, man. D-don’t tease."

Abruptly, you’re herded closer to the windowsill, head almost pressed against the glass when North drapes himself over your back, thrusting roughly against your still-clad ass. The pressure of his crotch against you leaves little to the imagination - he’s as hard as you are, now, cock straining eagerly against the confines of his slacks. He thrusts forward again, a little dip to his hips this time, catching the bulge of his arousal underneath the curve of your ass and dragging up hard, slow, maddeningly precise. “Ah, Christ, Wash. You have no idea how good you look right now, do you?”

And it’s well that you should. The sun still pours in from the garden, light spilling across your head and neck, and you’re aware that from a certain angle, it might look as if you’re glowing. From behind, with you bowed over the windowsill, forehead dropped down to your forearms, head practically thumping against the window with every dry thrust North gives, you probably look ten times as appealing.

Not to be vainglorious, of course.

The hand in your briefs withdraws then, pulling the elastic down so that your cock falls out back into North’s palm in the cool kitchen air. A shudder runs deep through you, through your bones and down to the soles of your feet when that hand wraps tighter around you, pulling the foreskin away from your glans with every stroke he gives. With a grunt, you jerk forward into that touch, beads of moisture welling up at the tip of your cock. It’s been so long since you last felt this all-consuming desire. Shamefully, you know this isn’t going to last long.

Reaching back with one hand, you grab at North’s hip and circulate between thrusting back against his forward motion, and jerking forward into the hand that pumps steadily, lovingly, at your sensitive flesh. “Dammit, North. HARDER.” The demand is growled, heavy with arousal and desperation. You almost lose your balance on the windowsill when the taller man complies, moaning low as he drops the hand against your throat to brace on the sill, hips rolling harder and faster against your jean-covered rear. Once or twice, you narrowly avoid your head jamming hard against the window.

Such is the situation when you feel the beginnings of your orgasm eating it’s way up inside you: North frotting hard behind you, panting heavy in your ear, his right hand busy jacking you off quick as his thrusting while outside, the bees still lazily drift from flower to flower collecting pollen. Your release teasingly ebbs and flows in a matter of seconds, raising a frustrating moistness behind your tightly shut eyelids. No, no, it’s been too long, you aren’t going to loose it now, you’re going to - going to -  
You come with a bellow directed at the tiles beneath you, orgasm running through you and leaving you a trembling wreck, your release splattered against the wall and across the floor before you. North isn’t far behind you, pushing forward a half dozen more times before he’s jerking, groaning long and loud in your ear, pressed tight against your ass as his orgasm dampens the inside of his slacks.

You both separate slowly, panting heavily, standing up with protesting muscles. Tucking yourself back into your jeans, buttoning up, you turn and grab the sides of North’s face, drawing him down into a long, weary, but ultimately satisfied kiss. Later, you will clean up the mess you made in the kitchen, as well as the mess North made of himself, tucking up together in a hot bath until the water runs cold and York comes tumbling into the house shouting something about take away and terribly sci-fi movies.

For now, though, you enjoy standing in the warmth of the sun, in the comfort of this embrace, and at this moment you’re certain there is no happier man in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from William Blake’s poem ‘Love and Harmony’. Excerpt:  
> Love and harmony combine,  
> And round our souls entwine  
> While thy branches mix with mine,  
> And our roots together join.
> 
> Joys upon our branches sit,  
> Chirping loud and singing sweet;  
> Like gentle streams beneath our feet  
> Innocence and virtue meet.


End file.
